Here are the lakes ringed round by spruce and fir,
And here the meadows where the mountain flowers grow,
And through the aspen trees, the snowy peaks,
The apple orchards and the village down below.
What place could be more beautiful than this, our mountain home?
Yet sometimes, even so, I will remember
How in my other woods the trillium bloomed,
How dogwood turned the springtime into splendor,
And every hollow was a watery glade
Where peepers called and violets filled the shade.